


The Crossroads

by Bearit



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearit/pseuds/Bearit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attack on the new Republic claims the life of Enjolras, Enjolras watches as his friends struggle to move on. Alternate Universe in which the June Rebellion is successful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras saw them all at once. He saw Bahorel punch a sandbag until it split open and then continue to punch, his knuckles going raw as they continued to ram into the stone beneath the torn sack. Jehan sobbed uncontrollably into his pillow. Feuilly wandered the streets with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his eyes concentrating on the ground. Courfeyrac found Feuilly, grabbed his arm, pulled him into an alleyway, and when their eyes met they drew each other into a tight embrace.

Joly and Bossuet were together outside of Enjolras’ apartment, Joly in tears and Bossuet holding his shoulders, looking at him and speaking to him in a low voice.

“Go home to Musichetta. You need her more than Grantaire needs you.”

“No, I can do this. I have to do this. He’s our friend. He can’t be left alone. We all know that but why is no one else—”

“Because we’re all upset, but you can’t do this. Grantaire can’t see you like this. Not right now. Go home. Go to Musichetta. Tell her you love her and she’ll tell you that she loves you and you tell her that I love her, too.”

Joly nodded. “I love you, Bossuet.”

Bossuet kissed him softly. “I love you, Joly. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Then Enjolras saw Joly in Musichetta’s arms, crying into her bosom as she clucked and petted his hair gently.

Enjolras wanted to reach out to Combeferre who had returned to his own apartment and upon shutting the door, broke down and fell to the floor. He wanted to hold him, tell him that he was there, that he never stepped too close to the explosion, that Combeferre’s desperate attempts to keep him alive had worked, but it was no use.

His blood was still on Combeferre’s hands, a fact not lost upon his most cherished friend. Enjolras could not have been more relieved when Courfeyrac and Feuilly showed up to help comfort Combeferre.

Then Enjolras was back in the apartment he shared with Grantaire, and Bossuet was trying to keep Grantaire, his shirt still red from Enjolras’ blood, from tearing the entire place apart. Bossuet fought against Grantaire’s rage, he screamed over Grantaire’s voice to get him to calm down, to listen, but Grantaire did not seem to notice that he was there.

After taking a few hits, Bossuet stepped back. He let Grantaire continue his actions until finally he collapsed in the middle of the room, punching the floor and violently sobbing.

Bossuet went to Grantaire’s side and rubbed his back. Enjolras was at Grantaire’s side too, and though he could touch Grantaire, Grantaire could not feel him. Nonetheless, Enjolras embraced him as best as he could, careful not to move in Bossuet’s way.

“He’s gone,” Grantaire finally choked. “Why… why is he… it should have been me! It should have been…” Grantaire gasped for air. “He is gone, Bossuet! He is gone and he will never come back! He is gone and I am to live without him! How can I? I cannot! My life was nothing before him and it is nothing without him! He… he cannot be… this must be a terrible dream. It must be! It has to be. Let me wake up. Please, let me wake up! Bossuet, surely you know how to wake up from a nightmare such as this. How do I?”

Then Grantaire stood and screamed at the ceiling. “Let me wake up! Enjolras, wake me up! Come back to me, let me be in your arms! I want to wake up in your embrace, I want to kiss you, I want to hold you, I want to hear you say…” Grantaire closed his eyes and sobbed. “I need to tell you how much I love you. How much I need you. How I could never stand it if you left, how you complete my life and make it worthwhile, how I… please, Enjolras. Wake me up. I cannot stand this nightmare anymore. You cannot be… you need to be…”

And Grantaire stumbled into the sofa and dissolved into tears. Bossuet was at his side immediately, and Enjolras stood helplessly before them both.

“Grantaire,” he murmured, reaching out to touch his hair, knowing that Grantaire would never be able to feel it. “Grantaire, I—” But what could he say? What could he say that he did not already say, and what could he say that Grantaire could hear?

_I love you._

_Live._

\---

His first memory was of banging each white and black cold ivory key with his index finger, loving the noise that resonated as he did so. He sat with his knees against the cushioned bench and his left hand just below the keys to keep himself upright. After a few minutes, his father settled onto the bench next to him and pressed the white key in the center of the piano.

“This is middle C,” he said, and thus Enjolras received his first music lesson.

High-pitched ringing and a blurry vision consumed his last memory, but one image and one sound stood out the most prominently: that of Grantaire’s reddened hazel eyes and choked begging for Enjolras not to leave him.

A flash of pain ripped through Enjolras’ abdomen. He cried out and then found himself standing in the sanctuary of an empty church.

It was quiet and dim, the only light being the sunlight through the high windows near the ceiling. Enjolras knew this smell of oak and incense, and he knew the pictures in the stained glass. This was the church his mother dragged him to in his youth. At the altar, however, lied a wooden coffin adorned with flowers and candles not yet lit. Enjolras frowned. This was not a funeral from his memories.

The door opened. In stumbled Grantaire with his shirt wrinkled and his cravat untied and a bottle in his hand. Bossuet and Joly rushed in after him, and the woman Enjolras recognized as Musichetta stood in the doorway, wringing her hands together.

“We can’t be in here yet!” hissed Joly.

Grantaire was unconcerned with propriety. “I need to see him!”

“You saw him last night, and the casket is closed now!”

“One last time!”

“Grantai—Bossuet! Are you two alright? You are not hurt, are you?”

Bossuet grabbed Grantaire and pulled him away from the casket. They fell backwards into the pew and Bossuet cried out on impact. Grantaire grunted and fell to his knees, crawling back up the altar.

“I’m fine,” said Bossuet, rubbing his back and lunging for Grantaire again.

“Let me go! I must see him! One last time!”

“Grantaire, you are drunk!”

“I am dead!”

Musichetta rushed through Enjolras. Enjolras gasped from the sensation, but he kept his attention upon his lover and their friends attempting to restrain him. Musichetta moved in Grantaire’s path and placed a hand on his cheek, saying softly, “Grantaire, my darling, please calm yourself. He would not want to see you like this.”

“He is dead,” Grantaire gasped but stopped struggling. Joly and Bossuet kept their grip upon him. “He is dead, what does it matter what I do?”

“Because he is watching. He is always watching over you, Grantaire. You must believe that. Please never doubt it. It would break his heart if you did.”

Grantaire sobbed. Musichetta grimly smiled and gently took Joly’s place by his side, helping Bossuet guide him out of the church.

“Come, let us get you cleaned up and sobered. It would do no one any good if you caused a scene like last night.”

The door closed behind them, and Enjolras’ heart sank. He was relieved that Grantaire had wonderful people like Bossuet and Joly and their mistress to look over him. With their help, perhaps Grantaire could emerge from his grief, and he could live once more.

Live. It was the last word Enjolras had spoken to Grantaire, and Enjolras hoped that Grantaire would take it to heart.

_I am dead!_

“No, Grantaire,” murmured Enjolras. “No, you are alive, and you must live.”

Enjolras looked back to the altar and tightened his jaw. That was him in that box. He was in that box, and this was his funeral. Enjolras approached the coffin and placed a hand on the smooth wood, doing all he could from trembling though nobody could possibly see him.

He was in there. He was dead. This was no horrible nightmare.

He remembered the explosion at the Musain as they were leaving for lunch by Courfeyrac’s insistence. Enjolras had been the last to leave, and he had turned to bid a good afternoon to a patron who had recognized him.

What had become of that man, and the others inside of the Musain? Were they all dead as well? They could not have survived that blast.

Enjolras bowed his head in mourning for those souls. Such senseless violence. The republic was not so easily won, and many monarchists still lashed out. Enjolras never dreamed that they would go to such extremes. And for what purpose?

The doors opened again, but two silent figures made their way down the aisle this time. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both with their gazes to the ground and Courfeyrac’s hand tight on Combeferre’s arm. They sat side by side in the first pew, Courfeyrac not letting go of Combeferre, but Combeferre seemed to be anywhere but with Courfeyrac.

“My friends,” murmured Enjolras as he knelt before them both. “Courfeyrac… my dear Combeferre. These faces do not suit you.”

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre and said, “If you wish to speak to him, now is your chance.”

“What is there to say? I have failed him.”

“No!” Enjolras gasped. “No, Combeferre, you could never…!”

“There was nothing you could have done,” said Courfeyrac. “There was nothing any of us could have done.”

“I had suggested the Musain.”

“If you had not, someone else would have. It was the first time the nine of us were to be together since the revolution. It was the perfect place for nostalgia’s sake.”

“I could have suggested the Corinthe.”

“And we would have fought for the Musain instead. It is where everything began. No one blames you, least of all Enjolras.”

Combeferre bowed his head lower and his voice cracked. “I couldn’t save him.”

Courfeyrac wrapped his arm around Combeferre and pulled him in tight. “Short of any being of the heavens, no one would have been able to. You must not blame yourself, Combeferre. He would not want that. I do not want that. Nobody wants that. You know what Enjolras would want as well as I do, and we must continue working for that, for his beloved France.”

“ _Our_ beloved France.” Enjolras was not sure if he said it or if Combeferre said it.

Courfeyrac smiled. “Our beloved France.”

\---

They were to return to Paris tomorrow, and so they made one last trip to his grave together.

Enjolras remembered Courfeyrac saying once that he wished he had more than two arms, and Courfeyrac looked as though he wished for it now more than ever. He had one hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and his arm around Jehan’s shoulders, and Courfeyrac looked desperately among everyone else as though he wanted nothing more than to take them all into one giant hug. Instead, he pulled Combeferre and the weeping Jehan closer and went back to staring solemnly upon the gravestone.

Bossuet assumed Courfeyrac’s role with Joly and Grantaire, where he kept Joly to his chest tightly and his other arm locked around Grantaire’s. Joly huddled close to Bossuet, but Grantaire’s empty eyes locked in one place and his free hand twitched as though it yearned for the cold green glass of his escape. Bahorel paced behind the group, wringing his hands together. Feuilly held his hat to his heart and whispered a few words in a language Enjolras never studied.

“This is not goodbye, you know,” said Courfeyrac finally with a smile Enjolras so missed. “Knowing Enjolras, his spirit is probably already back in Paris and waiting for Combeferre and I to return to finish that bill. Or perhaps he has found a way to poltergeist Monsieur Grimaud’s home. The one monarchist who managed to weasel his way into the republic! You see, Enjolras never gave up on France, and I do not see how death will stop him now.”

Combeferre and others smiled at that, but Bahorel and Grantaire did not. In fact, it appeared as though Grantaire did not hear Courfeyrac, while Bahorel did.

“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go! And maybe while we’re at it, we can figure out who put those explosives in the Musain—”

“Peace, Bahorel, peace!” cried Courfeyrac. “You know Enjolras would not approve of us become vigilantes for revenge!”

“But we cannot trust the police!”

“No, but we can work to make sure that this does not happen again,” said Combeferre, pulling away from Courfeyrac’s grasp. “I do not understand the purpose of the attack, but whatever it was, we must not change what we were doing. The riots will cease in time.”

“And how many more of us must die in the process? How many more innocents?”

“Bahorel,” said Combeferre firmly, and that was that. Bahorel huffed and resumed pacing.

“Do you suppose Enjolras is with us even now?” asked Jehan quietly. Enjolras smiled; even in all black, Jehan had found a way for absolutely nothing to match. No wonder Courfeyrac did not protest too loudly when Jehan wiped his face with his sleeve.

“If he’s not in Paris, then he is probably here, yes,” said Bossuet easily. “Listening to every word we say. Maybe he can even hear our thoughts now; wouldn’t that be a terrifying thing!”

Enjolras smiled as most everyone, even Bahorel, laughed. Enjolras’ attention was quickly diverted to Grantaire, who murmured beneath everyone’s laughter, “He’s not here. He’s not here. He will never be here again.

“Don’t you see!” he finally cried above everyone, jerking away from Bossuet. “Don’t you see! Enjolras is dead! He is dead and he is not coming back! He cannot come back! He cannot hear us, he cannot see us! He is gone, and he is gone forever and out of our grasps until sweet Death comes to welcome us into His embrace too!

“Well, let him come! Let Death come for me, as He should have come for me at the Musain that day! You missed your mark, Death! I am here! I am here and I am waiting! Come for me! Save me from this wretched existence! My life was nothing without Enjolras, is nothing without Enjolras! You have my heart and soul, now come for the rest of me!”

A heavy silence permeated through everyone as Grantaire stared at the sky, damning the heavens with tears flowing down his cheeks. Enjolras dreadfully wished that he could bring Grantaire into his arms and comfort him.

“Come for me!” he screamed. “Come for me!” Then his sobs overtook him, and he fell upon Enjolras’ grave in a heap. “Why won’t You come for me? Why did You take him? Why couldn’t You have taken me instead? I should have died that day!”

It was Courfeyrac who took Grantaire by the shoulders and met his eyes. “Grantaire, Enjolras would never have wanted your death over his, or your death because of his. Please, do not speak like this. Do not act upon your words. Death will come for you in His own time, when it is your time.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and shook his head but said nothing more. Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre, who was staring at Grantaire with a look that Enjolras had never seen Combeferre give Grantaire before: a look of understanding and of mutual sentiment. This was not lost upon Courfeyrac either.

“Nobody should have died that day, not even Enjolras. But it was Enjolras who died, and it would have done nobody any good had it been any of us instead of him. To have his best friend or his lover or any of those he cherished trade their lives for his would be the last thing he would have ever wanted. So let us never speak of how one of us should have died instead of him!

“And let us not wait for Death to come to us or seek out Death ourselves. Let us live on as he would have wanted us to. Let us work for France as he would have wanted us to. Let us not live in regret or sorrow, but we will always remember him, for he is not a man so easily forgotten.

“This is not goodbye. He will be with us always. He always had faith in us and we claim to have had faith in him. Let us prove it to him! He is always watching and always listening and he will never leave our side. As long as he is in our hearts, he will always be here.”

The others nodded and Enjolras would have smiled at Courfeyrac’s speech, except that neither Combeferre nor Grantaire seemed to have listened to a word Courfeyrac said. Courfeyrac patted Grantaire on the back and stood, heading back for the road as all but Combeferre and Grantaire followed.

“Come now, Enjolras’ mother is cooking for us a fabulous meal. Never say that a rich woman cannot cook, for I have received a preview of tonight’s dinner for myself!”

Then Combeferre and Grantaire were left alone. Enjolras braced himself; he did not know what to anticipate.

“Is there anything you would like to say to Enjolras before we go?” asked Combeferre quietly.

Grantaire stared at the gravestone for a long moment before answering, “No.”

Combeferre frowned. “You do not?”

“Do you?” It was not a challenge but an honest, simple question.

“No.” There was no hesitance in Combeferre’s answer but a hard, solid look upon Grantaire. Enjolras knew then that Combeferre was lying, and his heart ached at the possible reason why he lied now. “Come, Grantaire. Let’s join the others. We can’t have them worried about us.”

Combeferre helped Grantaire to his feet and the two walked side by side towards Enjolras’ childhood home. Enjolras stayed behind, standing atop his grave and hoping dearly that what he dreaded would not come to pass. Surely, with Combeferre’s help, it would not happen.

It could not happen. Enjolras missed holding Grantaire, but he could wait for an eternity to do so again if he must.

He hoped Grantaire would allow him to wait.

\---

Enjolras met Courfeyrac through Combeferre. It was the evening before the first day of classes, and Combeferre and Enjolras had quickly established their friendship the afternoon before after spending five minutes in their shared apartment. They went out for dinner at a little Italian bistro when Courfeyrac noticed Combeferre.

“Combeferre! Wonderful to see you, my friend!” said Courfeyrac as he pulled up a chair and sat between the two. “And who is this? It is rare to see you out with someone, but it is also refreshing and good for you!”

“I would have thought you would be more disappointed that I was not eating dinner with a lady,” said Combeferre dryly, glaring at Courfeyrac over the brim of his wine glass.

“One step at a time, my good man. Are you not going to introduce us?”

Combeferre sighed. “Courfeyrac, this is my roommate, Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac shook hands, Enjolras with a polite smile and Courfeyrac with a large one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Enjolras.

“The pleasure is all mine!”

The last image Enjolras had of Courfeyrac was just before the explosion. In Courfeyrac’s nature, he laughed as he ushered everyone out of the Café Musain, joyfully exclaiming that the sun was too bright and warm to be cooped up all day.

“We’ll have dinner here in the evening, just like old times!” he cried with a smile to rival the sun. Then Enjolras was blinded by a white, searing light.

Enjolras would have been happy to remember Courfeyrac always like that: laughing and smiling. The warmth of his spirit always soothed Enjolras, but ever since Enjolras’ death, Courfeyrac’s laughs and smiles were forced no matter how hard he tried to soothe everyone else’s pain.

That was why when Courfeyrac returned to his apartment in Paris and broke down into tears over his desk, Enjolras was more heartbroken than surprised.

Enjolras had caught Courfeyrac like this a few times before and after the funeral, but he had always held back or only allowed himself a brief moment of grief before wiping his eyes and returning to the others. For a while, Enjolras wondered why Courfeyrac did not ask for the comfort he gave freely to everyone else, but he remembered Courfeyrac’s generous heart, and Enjolras mourned for Courfeyrac.

Now Courfeyrac did not risk being discovered by the others in such a state, and so he freely wept. Enjolras hated that all he could do was put his ghostly hand upon his shoulder. Courfeyrac could not feel it; it was a useless gesture but one Enjolras could not keep from making.

A soft knock came at the door. Courfeyrac hastily wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“Monsieur Courfeyrac, you have returned! It is me, Justine Blanc. May I come in?”

“Yes, of course! Please give me a moment.”

Courfeyrac rushed to the sink and washed his face. After checking himself in the mirror, he let in his mistress. “Darling mademoiselle, I was not expecting to see you—”

“Ever again?” cooed Justine Blanc as she pushed past Courfeyrac with a box in her hands. “Oh, Monsieur Courfeyrac, like I told you, you provide a wonderful distraction from my fiancé. He remains as insufferable as always. Besides that, I was worried about you! Ever since I heard about your friend—oh! You have been crying!”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “It is nothing. I am fine.”

“But you are not! Here, dear. I made you cake. I can go prepare some tea for you if you would like.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle, but I must refrain tonight. It has been a long journey and I am very tired. Perhaps we can entertain each other some other night?”

“I am not here to entertain, monsieur,” said Justine Blanc as she set the cake upon the table. “I am here to give you a shoulder to cry on. I am only surprised that I am the first of your mistresses to show up to do so.”

Courfeyrac smiled weakly. “I do not need—”

“Pardon me, but you do. Everyone does. Especially since you have obviously been crying here alone! Nobody should cry alone. Is that not what you told me when we first met?”

Enjolras knew that Courfeyrac’s defenses were compromised the moment Courfeyrac closed his eyes and walked into Justine Blanc’s embrace.

“I miss him.”

“I know you do, darling.”

“And everyone else is hurting so badly.”

“So are you, my dear.”

Enjolras shifted and turned his gaze away, though a smile played upon his face. He should have known better. He should have known that Courfeyrac was a man who could never be alone no matter how hard he tried. And though Courfeyrac had many lovers and kept none, at least one returned as a friend to help him where he would let no one else see that he needed it.

But the moment could not last, and Joly burst through the door then. “Courfeyrac! We might need your help. It’s Grantaire.”

\---

Jehan often described his favorite ways of falling in love: friends to lovers, love from a distance united at long last, finding something in someone you never saw before. But his favorite, he always declared proudly, was love at first sight.

Enjolras paid as much heed to Jehan’s words as he did to any of his non-political poetry. Enjolras politely smiled, he listened, and he found beauty and art in his words, but rarely thought about it more than that.

Sometimes, however, he did think upon it, especially after he and Grantaire shared their first kiss. He thought about the first time they met when a ragged Grantaire followed Bahorel into the back room of the Café Musain as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.

“My comrades,” proclaimed Bahorel, “this man is good with his fists and fierce in his beliefs, and though he has no strong political leanings one way or another, I have seen for myself how he fights for injustice and I believe he will make a valuable asset to our group.”

Grantaire pursed his lips and did not meet the eyes of anyone in the room. “The injustice was that it was a bottle of wine I had paid for with the very last of my sous. For us to have become allies in that brawl was an accident, as I have told you many times already. I care little for your quarrel. Why have you brought me here?”

But Enjolras trusted Bahorel’s eye for talent, and even one with no inclinations could be persuaded to have some. He approached Grantaire and held out his hand with a smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Enjolras.”

Grantaire looked up and met his eyes, his scowl melting into wonder. He cleared his throat and took Enjolras’ hand. “Grantaire.”

“Welcome to Les Amis de l’ABC, Grantaire.”

Grantaire attended nearly every meeting after that, keeping to the corner alone with a bottle of wine or absinthe. He never spoke up and he rarely seemed to listen and only if Enjolras spoke. It was only after the others insisted he share his drink with them that he slowly began opening up to them.

That was when Enjolras found the half-truths in Bahorel’s words about him. He was fierce in his beliefs that he had no beliefs; he had absolutely no political leanings; and the injustice he fought for was the injustice when his drink was snatched away from him by those who decided that he had had more than enough. Every time Combeferre suggested to Enjolras that they turn out Grantaire, Enjolras found himself looking upon Grantaire and believing that there was something in the drunkard that none of them but Bahorel had yet to see.

Nonetheless, the others enjoyed his company. Gradually, Grantaire included himself more and more with Courfeyrac and Bossuet and Bahorel’s activities outside of the Musain, and his solemn demeanor became alight with a passion in nothing but a passion all the same.

Then, one day, after Combeferre asked why he did not turn Grantaire out (“They can still be friends with him, but he does not belong in the Musain.”), Enjolras realized that perhaps the biggest reason he refused to banish Grantaire from Les Amis was the simple truth that he was drawn to him. Enjolras caught himself glancing over at Grantaire more often than not, and his disdain for Grantaire’s drinking had as much to do with his worry for the man as it did his continuous interruptions of the meetings.

Later that evening, Enjolras had his first real and careful glance into Grantaire’s hazel eyes, and he was shocked to find them beautiful.

They suffered many setbacks in their relationship, but after the barricades rose in 1832 and the revolution won, somehow, they were able to reconcile.

Now Grantaire sat in between Bossuet and Joly in the fiacre returning to Paris, his head bowed and those hazel eyes more empty and dead than when Enjolras first met him. Enjolras’ heart ached for Grantaire, and he held his head between his hands.

“Please do not do this to yourself,” he murmured, though he knew that Grantaire could not hear. “I promise you have so much more to live for.”

The fiacre stopped. “We are here,” said Bossuet. Enjolras looked out the window and saw the apartment he had shared with Grantaire.

“I can go in alone,” said Grantaire as he moved past Bossuet and out of the carriage.

“Are you sure? I do not think you should be left alone,” Bossuet said.

Grantaire mustered a weak smile. “I will be fine. Please do not worry about me. I will be fine.”

Bossuet and Joly glanced at each other, and Bossuet shook his head. “No. We will stay with you.”

“No, it is fine. I know it has only been a day since Musichetta returned to Paris, but I know she must miss you both. Go to her, for me. I have burdened everyone enough the past week.”

“You are not a burden,” Joly insisted. “Come stay with us! Please!”

“I need to be alone.”

“Alone is the last thing you ought to be right now,” said Bossuet as he hopped out of the fiacre. “Then I will stay with you, and Joly will tend to Musichetta.”

Grantaire scowled and stepped away from Bossuet. “Can I not just mourn him in peace, alone? Can I not just have this to myself? I have not been alone since… since… and I want to be alone now! I want to mourn him and remember him in my own way, in a way I cannot with you lot around! Leave me be! You do not understand how I feel, you cannot understand! Leave me alone with my memories and my drink, with my tears and my empty heart. I want to be alone, I need to be alone! Give this to me, just this once, and I will never need to be alone again!”

And without waiting for an answer, Grantaire stormed into the building. Bossuet did not chase after him, and Enjolras was glad for Joly.

“We need to go with him!” he cried. “I am afraid is about to do something desperate! We cannot let him!”

Bossuet pursed his lips and nodded grimly. “I know. Go get help, Joly. I think we may need it. Courfeyrac, Bahorel, anybody. Everybody. Send them here, quickly.”

Joly nodded and gave the driver directions to Courfeyrac’s apartment. Bossuet waited until the fiacre disappeared down the street before he dashed inside.

The next sight appalled Enjolras. He was back in his apartment with Grantaire now, and Grantaire stood with his back against the locked door. He hung his head and took in a few deep breaths, listening for the clacking of hooves against the pavement outside. When it quieted, he made his way to Enjolras’ desk and opened the top drawer, and he pulled out the gold-trimmed revolver Combeferre had gifted Enjolras.

Enjolras gasped and yelled, hoping that if he was loud enough, Grantaire could somehow hear him. “Grantaire, put the gun down! Now!”

But it was not his voice that stopped Grantaire but the loud crash of the door falling beneath Bossuet. Startled, Grantaire fired, and if he were not dead Enjolras was sure his face would be as pale as Grantaire’s as he realized who had barged in.

“Bossuet!” cried Grantaire.

Bossuet sat up, his eyes wild but, fortunately, not in pain. Enjolras sighed in relief when he saw the bullet hole in the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Bossuet as he climbed to his feet. “Grantaire, give me the gun.”

Grantaire held the revolver to his chest but said nothing. Bossuet repeated the order.

“I cannot,” whispered Grantaire.

“Grantaire!”

“This is the only way. This is the only way I can be with him again, this is the only way I can live again. And I almost shot you. Don’t you see, Bossuet? Breathing, I am dangerous. In death, I will be alive once more. This is what Enjolras wanted, was it not? He told me to live, well, this is how I intend to do that!”

Bossuet approached Grantaire slowly. “This is not what he meant, Grantaire. You know that.”

“I am a burden, an eyesore! With me gone, the rest of you can live on and your lives will be all the easier for it. And I will be with Enjolras again! Everyone wins!”

“Everyone loses! You cannot guarantee that you will be Enjolras like this, and we cannot lose another friend again so soon!”

“So how long am I to wait then? A couple of weeks? Months? Next year?”

“You will wait for your time to come, as Courfeyrac said. We will mourn you. We will be heartbroken over you. But no one would be more heartbroken than Enjolras, and Heaven has no place for those who take their own lives! So please, give me the gun!”

Grantaire shook his head. “No. Even if I am condemned, I will still be closer to Enjolras than I am now, and I will be more alive. Even if I become nothing more than food for the rats and maggots, I will be closer to Enjolras and I will be alive.”

Bossuet looked to be at a loss for words. “Grantaire, please.”

“I am sorry, Bossuet, my friend.”

Then, to Enjolras’ surprise, Bossuet lunged for Grantaire. They fell to the ground in a heap and they wrestled, grunting as Bossuet reached for the revolver Grantaire kept moving out of his reach. Enjolras worried that Grantaire would accidentally pull the trigger and kill them both, and he hoped that either Bossuet was successful in his endeavor or that someone would barge in and end the struggle.

Two large hands grabbed Bossuet and lifted him off of Grantaire. Before anyone could catch their breath, Bahorel yanked the revolver out of Grantaire’s hands and tossed it to the other side of the room.

“Joly said that you might be doing something horrible,” snarled Bahorel. “I just didn’t imagine how stupid that something could be! Bossuet, get those bullets out of there and go see if he has any other weapons lying around.”

Bossuet scrambled to his feet and did just that. Enjolras wished that he could point to Bossuet exactly where everything was; he had not kept much weaponry in his home, at least not to the extent of Combeferre and Feuilly, but there were knives in the kitchen, a rifle from the revolution in the closet, and rope stuffed in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As Enjolras glanced to each location, Bossuet made a beeline for those exact spots, which would have caused Enjolras curiosity if his attention wasn’t monopolized by Bahorel and Grantaire.

Bahorel helped Grantaire to his feet and led him to the bed. “Just what in God’s name did you think you were doing? Do you really think you are alone in your grief? We loved him too! We miss him too! We may have not been fucking him. We may not have wanted to have been fucking him. He may not have been our whole world but he was our world too! And you are a part of that world, Grantaire! With or without him, you are an important part of our lives and don’t you dare remove yourself from it.”

Joly ran in with Courfeyrac and Combeferre in tow. Bossuet handed them the knives and guns and rope, though Combeferre only reached for the revolver, staring at it with knitted brows and a frown that mad Enjolras’ heart cry out. Courfeyrac took the rest and whispered to Joly, “Go home and remove all your medicines somewhere where Grantaire won’t be able to find them. He should stay with you, like you said.”

Joly nodded and promptly left once again. Courfeyrac set the pile onto the desk and sat by Grantaire. Grantaire refused to look at him.

“I know what you are going to say,” he muttered.

“I was not going to say anything,” said Courfeyrac sadly. “Words did not prevent you from doing this. Right now, words will not change your mind about doing this. Instead, you should rest, but not here. Bossuet, I believe you and Joly had offered your place for Grantaire before?” Bossuet nodded. “Stay with them. They will not leave your side. You have much to live for, Grantaire, and we will do all we can to prove it to you.”

Grantaire snorted quietly. “You only care because of Enjolras.”

“We care because of you, too. Come along now.”

As Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet led Grantaire out of the apartment, Courfeyrac cast a glance back at Combeferre. “Are you coming?”

Combeferre started as though he had been lost in thought. “Yes, in a moment. I will catch up.”

After they left, Combeferre traced his finger along the gold trimming of the revolver. His eyes watered and he sighed and pressed his lips to the metal. Combeferre glanced around the room, stuffed the revolver into his coat, and picked up the fallen door.

“Goodbye, Enjolras,” he murmured as he propped the door against the opening to the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre’s apartment was dimly lit, the dark curtains drawn and only a couple of candles lit. Enjolras wondered if Joly had interrupted some sort of experiment; Combeferre had hastily labeled bottles of liquids strewn about along with medical supplies and open books. If Enjolras did not know better, he would have been relieved that Combeferre was carrying on as normally as he could, but Combeferre had always been deliberate in all his experiments, especially ones he came up with on an apparent whim. Why the mess, why the disorganization?

Combeferre moved to the window to use what little sunlight came through to inspect the revolver. He ran his fingers across every inch of the wood and metal as though his mind wandered to a time only a couple of years prior.

It was after the 1830 barricades and the stolen revolution. Enjolras had thrown himself in books and speeches and rough thoughts and ideas and plans of how to proceed. Combeferre was ever by his side with a cup of coffee and cooked meal and words to encourage or hold back, approve or deny. Looking back, despite the heartache and the rage, Enjolras realized that being with Combeferre during that time had been one of his happiest and most peaceful moments.

One night, Combeferre placed the revolver in front of Enjolras.

“What is this?” asked Enjolras. He picked it up and studied it, wondering with envy if Combeferre had been planning something without him.

“The times are restless. You should be safe.”

Enjolras frowned. “You know I will not have any intention of using this until the people rise, and by then—”

“It is simply to put my mind at ease,” said Combeferre.

“I will not need to use it.”

“Please.”

Enjolras could not refuse Combeferre, and so he kept the revolver on his person at every moment until after the summer of 1832 when the republic was won.

Now Enjolras was dead, and Combeferre had the revolver back in his possession. He sighed, fell to the bed, and hung his head, holding the revolver lightly between his legs. He pressed his fingers to his temple and his shoulders shook as he sobbed.

“Combeferre,” murmured Enjolras as he wrapped his arms around his friend and kissed the top of his head.

“I couldn’t save you.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, wishing that he could feel Combeferre’s warmth. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You did the best you could.”

“I should have been behind you, not ahead of you. I should have been beside you, speaking with you, not arguing with Courfeyrac.”

“You couldn’t have known. None of us could have.”

“There must have been some way to stop the bleeding, some way to keep you living long enough to repair the damage, some way to… I should have known it.”

Enjolras remembered the wounds he suffered and the sharp piece of debris that had pierced through his stomach. He flinched. “The wound was too deep. It was only a miracle I had stayed alive as long as I did.”

“You could have been saved.”

“No, I couldn’t have.”

Combeferre sighed and removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. After readjusting them back upon his face, he walked to his workbench and placed the revolver upon it and stared at the work below.

“What am I doing,” he murmured.

Then in one sweep of his arm, he cleared all but the revolver from the workbench. He slumped over the table and buried his head within his arms, controlling his breathing at first before letting out one short, frustrated and anguished scream.

“I cannot do this,” he said as he turned to look frantically about his apartment. “I cannot. Enjolras. Enjolras, why are you gone? Why are you gone when it could have just as easily have been myself? When I could have lingered behind with you? When I have always used to linger behind with you.”

He snorted. “I must be going mad. I am speaking to someone who isn’t here.”

As Combeferre took in deep breaths to calm himself, Enjolras held Combeferre’s shoulders. “No, Combeferre. I am here. I am here and you must not blame yourself. I will always be here, Combeferre.” Enjolras touched his cheek. “You must have known that you could not always protect me. You know that I did not want to be—did not need to be—but I have never been ungrateful for it because I needed you. I needed you and I still do.”

“I need you, Enjolras. We need you.”

“And that must be why I am here.” Then Enjolras pursed his lips and pushed away from Combeferre. “But I cannot help you. You cannot see me or hear me. None of you can. I have no influence. If I am here because you need me, then why am I so powerless? And if I am here because I need you… oh, Combeferre, I wish you could hear me. I wish you could see me.”

“I wish you were here.”

“And so do I. Then you would not be like this. Courfeyrac, a man who should never be heartbroken, would be smiling and laughing again. Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta could happily prepare for the wedding. Bahorel and Feuilly would not be swearing revenge. Jehan’s poetry would not be filled with despair. And Grantaire…

“Combeferre, I know you have never been particularly fond of Grantaire but you must help him. I cannot bear to see him like he is, and I do not wish to be reunited with him in the afterlife so soon. I must be honest with you, Combeferre, I wish to hold him again, to comfort him, to tell him how much I love him and want the very best for him, but I cannot. I do not ask you to do that for me, but… please help him. It must be unfair of me to ask this, but I worry for him.”

Combeferre fell into a grim silence. Then, he took the revolver and buried it into a drawer and grabbed his coat. As he stood before the door, he shook his head.

“I do not know what to do for him, Enjolras, but you loved him, and because of that I feel I must do something. I fear he may be a lost cause.”

Enjolras smiled; the illusion of conversation was simply that, but it made his heart soar nonetheless. “He is never a lost cause, Combeferre. I have told you this many times. Believe in him as you both have believed in me, as you have believed in the Republic.”

And with that, Combeferre left the apartment, but Enjolras did not follow this time. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

\---

As the weeks passed, Enjolras watched his friends fall into a new routine. Most continued to go about their lives as best as they could, though Courfeyrac’s smiles were less bright, Jehan’s poetry was more melancholy, and Joly took many breaks during his work to release extraneous emotion. Feuilly spent what little free time he had with Bahorel as the two engaged in the detective work the police cared little to perform, both of them using their outside contacts to find out what information they could. Enjolras worried for them, but there was nothing he could do to deter them.

Bossuet seemed the most determined of everyone to move on. He did not begrudge the others, of course; he helped take some workload off of Courfeyrac’s shoulders and helped him laugh as often as he could, he encouraged Jehan’s poetry, and he provided a shoulder for Joly to cry on. Sometimes he made inquiries to Bahorel and Feuilly about their progress but did not join in on their activities.

Mostly, however, he cared for Grantaire who had taken up residence in the spare bedroom. Bossuet had Combeferre’s aid, but there was very little the two of them could do. Grantaire played with his food absently and he only left the bed to relieve himself. 

Combeferre did his best to see to it that Grantaire ate at least half of his meal, though the process often took a couple of hours at a time. Bossuet tried to converse with Grantaire, tried to laugh with him, tried to encourage him to go with him to a party or even just the dinner table when Musichetta made a lavish meal, but Grantaire shook his head and curled back under his covers.

Grantaire cried little and only alone at night. He did not have outbursts of grief anymore. With one glance, Enjolras could tell how much Combeferre and Bossuet longed for any outrageous display. Once, Bossuet suggested to Combeferre that they let some drink back into the apartment to see if it would help Grantaire come alive again, but Combeferre disagreed.

“He will drown himself in wine and absinthe if you give him the chance,” said Combeferre. “We must continue to withhold the drink from him.”

Occasionally Combeferre visited Enjolras and Grantaire’s apartment to pay the rent and make sure dust did not collect in the absence of its inhabitants. There, Enjolras felt the strongest pull to Combeferre as the man tidied the old papers and books Enjolras had left behind and the destruction Grantaire had caused in his grief.

Combeferre ended his visits with a deep breath to fight the tears and a few words to Enjolras. Enjolras responded, enjoying the illusion of conversation he had with his oldest and dearest friend. It was Enjolras’ favorite time since slipping away from life.

Enjolras’ greatest pull to Grantaire, however, was at night when Grantaire stared longingly at the ceiling. He softly called out Enjolras’ name, sobbed, and then drifted to sleep. Enjolras stayed at his side, caressing him and whispering to him anything and everything.

His greatest mistake came one night when Grantaire tossed and turned in a fit of a nightmare. Enjolras’ words were useless to soothe him, so he held Grantaire’s head in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Enjolras closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was no longer in the darkened spare bedroom of Bossuet and Joly’s apartment, but in a dense fog that carried the nauseating smell of burnt wood and gunpowder.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras turned and saw Grantaire standing there, his eyes wide and his face in disbelief. Enjolras, too, was surprised, but when he tried to call out Grantaire’s name he found his lips glued together. Instead, he smiled.

Grantaire stumbled towards Enjolras and stroked his cheek. “It’s you. Enjolras, it’s you, alive! You’re back! You’re back! How could you leave me like that? How could you leave me devastated? Oh, what cruelty, faking your death like that! I should hate you for it, and yet… oh God, Enjolras, you’re alive again and that is all that matters!”

Enjolras tried to protest, but again his mouth did not open. Not that it mattered, for Grantaire pressed his lips firmly against Enjolras’ with a passion Enjolras missed. He kissed back as best as he could.

Too quickly the kiss ended, but Grantaire did not pull far away. “Have I offended you? Have I upset you? Is that why you left? Oh, I should have known better than to dream, than to believe, that you would tolerate me to be with me until we grew old together. I do not begrudge you for it. I did believe in it, though. I believed in our future together, even if I could never comprehend what a man like you would do with a wretch like me. The time we had together was the best of my life. Apart was the worst! Thinking you were dead was the worst! I wanted to be dead. I was dead! But now that you are here, I can live again!”

Enjolras held Grantaire tightly, wishing he could tell Grantaire that he was wrong, that Enjolras had not faked his death and that he would never hurt Grantaire as long as he could help it. But he was dead, and Grantaire was far more wounded than Enjolras ever wished to see him. Instead, Enjolras closed his eyes and relished being able to hold Grantaire again, to feel him again, and to have Grantaire hold him.

But the time could not last. The fog lifted to reveal fire and ash, soot and debris, and Enjolras was jerked away from Grantaire with a searing pain through his gut.

“ENJOLRAS!”

Then Enjolras was back in the apartment, holding his stomach far away from Grantaire’s bed. He looked up to see Grantaire sitting up in his bed, panting and drenching his sheets in sweat.

“Enjolras…” Grantaire murmured, and he screamed as realization dawned upon him.

Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta burst into the room.

“Grantaire! What is wrong?” cried Bossuet as Musichetta gathered Grantaire into her arms.

Grantaire ignored Musichetta but did not push her away. “He is gone! He was here but now he is gone! Oh, how I am tormented by myself! I had finally become numb. I had finally begun to die! But then he was there in my dreams, and he felt so real, he looked so real, and I had fallen in love again and became alive again! But it was only a dream. A dream! Such cruel fates taunt me. He is gone and he will never come back!”

“Shh, shh,” murmured Musichetta as she combed her fingers through his hair.

“And I saw him die again. He died again! And now I must live in torment once more, now I must forget to feel again! I cannot do this. I cannot! I must be with him, don’t you see? Don’t you see what I must do?”

“No, Grantaire, no,” said Bossuet as Joly ran to find some medicine. “It was only a bad dream.”

“It was the best dream! It was the happiest dream I ever had until the end, which makes it my worst nightmare come true again. And it is proof, don’t you see? It is proof that without Enjolras, I am dead. I am only alive with him, I can only live if he is with me!”

“But he is,” insisted Musichetta.

“He is dead!”

Joly returned with a cup of tea and what Enjolras could only hope was something to help Grantaire calm down. “Here. Drink this.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Grantaire, please.”

Enjolras whispered, “Please, Grantaire.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Grantaire took the cup and drank it slowly.

He cried himself back to sleep and the pain in Enjolras’ stomach was gone. Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta looked at each other helplessly.

“I will stay with him,” said Musichetta. “The poor man has been brought back to life in the worst way. He must not be left alone.”

Bossuet nodded. “Please do not push yourself. If you need relief, come wake either of us up.”

Bossuet and Joly left the room and Musichetta pulled up a chair next to Grantaire’s bed. As she lulled him softly with a lullaby, Enjolras’ chest began to ache.

For as much happiness as intruding upon Grantaire’s dream had brought the both of them, Enjolras knew that he could never do that again. He worried for many things, but most of all for the consequences his mistake would cost Grantaire.

\---

“What happened?” Combeferre demanded after Grantaire drifted to sleep.

The spare bedroom was in shambles. The chairs were overturned, the curtains ripped from their rings and shredded, and the drawers torn from the dresser. Feathers, food scraps, and porcelain littered the floor and the bed sheets that were stained from tea and medicine.

Combeferre had arrived quickly enough to help Bossuet placate Grantaire. Together they were able to pin him to the bed until he stopped flailing his arms and legs, which was enough for him to scream into his pillow and sob violently into unconsciousness.

“He dreamt of Enjolras last night,” said Bossuet. “I do not know the specifics. Grantaire has not said anything more about it. He has not been like this since Enjolras died. Perhaps he dreamt of his life and then of his death. He only said it was the best dream until the end.”

“You suppose he relived the day?”

“Or worse.”

Combeferre pursed his lips as he studied the sleeping Grantaire. Enjolras wished there was some way to tell Combeferre that he had appeared before Grantaire in his dreams, that he had appeared just real enough to Grantaire that he might have not ever woken up if not for the subconscious, that he loved every second of their time together but because of what it had done to Grantaire, he would not risk it again. Combeferre would have disapproved, but he would have then been able to help Enjolras decipher what such an ability could mean.

“He is too unwell,” said Combeferre. “If anything so much as reminds Grantaire of Enjolras, he might go off again.”

“He only destroyed his apartment once when Enjolras died. I don’t think he will lash out again,” said Bossuet with a frown.

“This is not Grantaire’s own apartment we speak of. It is not your apartment alone we speak of. You share this space with your lovers. Joly, Musichetta. Would you take that chance?”

Bossuet said, “Enjolras would.”

Combeferre gave this a brief thought and then sighed in defeat. “Very well then. Shall I help you pick the room up?”

As the two replaced the drawers, removed the shredded fabric, and picked up the broken feathers and porcelain, upon which Bossuet managed to cut up all his fingers doing, Enjolras considered his own actions from the night previous. He had, of course, not meant to intrude upon Grantaire’s dream. He did not even understand how he had done it or why it had occurred. Perhaps Combeferre could make sense of it, if he even knew about it. The only way he could know for sure was if Grantaire told him; unfortunately, Enjolras was unsure if Grantaire understood it at all himself.

Was this something he could do to anybody? What if he entered Combeferre’s dreams? Perhaps they could communicate somehow, easier than he ever could with Grantaire!

But no, Enjolras realized. It was a dangerous thing to do, and to be a willing invader upon his dearest friend’s subconscious was an atrocious thought. He knew that Combeferre would never hold it against him, but could Enjolras forgive himself? He had not begun to for doing it to Grantaire.

When Joly and Musichetta returned home with supper, Grantaire was still asleep. Combeferre and Bossuet explained to them what had happened earlier, and Joly and Musichetta took the news in stride.

“I will feed Grantaire his food myself,” said Musichetta with a nod. “And as soon as he wakes up I will give him the spare sheets and throw out the old in case any broken pieces were left behind.”

“Should I prepare a sedative just in case?” asked Joly.

Combeferre shook his head. “No. You will not need it. And Musichetta, feeding Grantaire will be unnecessary. He is a grown man capable of feeding himself. The tantrum was an isolated incident. But I thank you both.”

And Enjolras smiled.

They offered Combeferre to stay for dinner, but he declined, and Enjolras found himself stuck by Comeferre’s side as he walked home.

There was so much he wanted to say to Combeferre, but alas, there was nothing he could say that Combeferre could hear. So he stayed silent, waiting for Combeferre to begin their conversations as he always did.

He did not. Not through the walk home, not through his own dinner, not through reading one of his many thick books. Combeferre remained silent, almost peaceful, as though he had been as successful in Bossuet in moving on.

Except, however, when he finally climbed into bed and murmured Enjolras’ name with a melancholy sigh before falling asleep. Enjolras fell to his knees by Combeferre’s bedside and grasped his hand between his.

“Combeferre! I have much to confess to you. I know you cannot hear me. I have pretended that you could because I miss talking with you, but now I cannot pretend anymore. Hear me, if you can. Hear me and know the crime I have committed against my own lover.”

Enjolras spoke of the night previous and spared no detail. Then he spoke of his own fears and reservations, of how much he wanted Combeferre to hear and see him to the point he considered briefly going where he did not belong, and finally how he treasured Combeferre too much to do it.

“I am dead, Combeferre. I do not know why I still linger but I never wanted to shield myself from any of your pains. Not yours, not Grantaire’s, or Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly. But I fear I am doing more harm than good by staying.

“I wish you could help, but you are helping Grantaire, and that is enough. I am fine. I am dead. I cannot be anything but alright. But why did I enter Grantaire’s dream? How could I? And yours… how I wish to enter yours!”

Enjolras closed his eyes but jumped back when he felt Combeferre’s fingers curl around his hand. He pulled away as the room around him flashed into a fog once and then disappear as soon as he jerked away from Combeferre.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras murmured. “Combeferre, I am so sorry.”

\---

After the first time they made love, they stayed with their noses touching and panting with peaceful smiles. Enjolras touched Grantaire’s face and Grantaire leaned into his hand, kissing it gently.

“I never thought, never dared to dream…”

“Shh.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

As tears welled in Grantaire’s eyes their lips met again and their arms wrapped around each other in an entanglement Enjolras found he never wanted to escape from.

Tonight, with one glance Enjolras knew that Grantaire remembered that moment as though it was yesterday. It had been a week since the dream, and Grantaire had mellowed into frequent broken sobs, for which there was little consolation. He still did not leave the bed, and he barely spoke or ate, and he slept often. Tonight, however, as Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta retired for the night, Enjolras feared that Grantaire had no plans to sleep.

An hour passed after the apartment quieted. Grantaire pulled the sheets off himself and quietly pulled open his drawers. He slipped into his trousers and a clean shirt and waistcoat, and he wrapped a cravat around his neck but did not bother to tie it. After slipping on his shoes, he tiptoed out of the apartment, and Enjolras felt the onset of panic.

“Grantaire, what are you doing?” he murmured as he followed Grantaire down the street.

Soon they arrived at a darkened yet rambunctious tavern. “Don’t,” cried Enjolras as Grantaire walked inside. Enjolras sighed; despite all of Bossuet and Joly’s best efforts, Grantaire could not be kept from his drink forever.

Grantaire approached the bar and made his order. After downing one glass of absinthe he asked for another, and then another, until finally he turned to watch the other patrons.

His eyes finally fell upon the loudest group of men and women as they guffawed and cackled and the men made lewd passes at the waitresses and the women danced in the men’s laps, covering their faces and necks in kisses and tongue. The men were big enough to be Bahorel’s older brothers; the women dressed as though they were out to make money. The men shared their drinks among each other and they challenged each other to dominoes and card games and arm wrestling matches. The women hid their smirks.

Enjolras wondered what Grantaire’s interest was in them but as Grantaire approached them, he knew he did not wish to know the answer like this. Grantaire tapped the biggest man on the shoulder, and when he turned to face Grantaire with an annoyed scowl, Grantaire threw a punch into the man’s face.

The man stumbled backwards into the table, spilling drink all over his companions. He was on his feet instantly and without a word lunged at Grantaire.

They fought and wrestled until they were out of the tavern, and the man’s friends had rallied to join him on the streets. Grantaire was outmatched and outnumbered and soon stopped fighting. The men continued to throw blows and kicks.

“Bahorel!” cried Enjolras, wishing desperately that his friends would come to end this. “Feuilly! Combeferre!”

Finally, the men had enough and left Grantaire curled up bleeding and bruised on the pavement. Enjolras relief that Grantaire was still breathing was short-lived; he pulled himself to his knees and spat on the leader of the group.

“What?” slurred Grantaire as he swayed, a smirk underneath his swollen and bloodied face. “Had enough have you, you sniveling little—”

Grantaire did not have the chance to finish. The leader stormed back to him and forced him to his feet by his collar, rearing back for another punch, his companions circling around them.

Then a gunshot rang out.

Enjolras could not have been happier. “Combeferre!”

There he stood, his revolver pointed at the sky and a deadly scowl pointed at the gang. “Let him go.”

“This does not concern you,” the leader snapped.

Combeferre pointed the gun at him. “Now.”

They stared at each other for a long moment as though the leader considered the possibility that Combeferre would actually shoot them. Finally, he snarled and shoved Grantaire to the ground.

“He ain’t worth my time anyway.”

As the gang disappeared back into the tavern, Combeferre knelt beside Grantaire and grabbed his face to inspect it.

“What were you doing? Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

Grantaire kept his gaze on Combeferre’s shoes. “I miss him.”

“So it was that. I was hoping that you were going to tell me that they had done something to Bossuet or Joly and you were here to defend their honor, or better yet, that those brutes had picked the fight with you! Where are Joly and Bossuet?”

“Sleeping.”

Combeferre nodded. “You sneaked out then. That makes sense.” He sighed. “Can you stand? Walk?”

“I can die.”

“You will not.”

Combeferre slung Grantaire’s arm over his shoulder and lifted him to his feet, but Grantaire jerked away and fell back to the pavement.

“No! I am not trying to kill myself this time, don’t you see! I want to be with Enjolras. I need to be with Enjolras. I remember too much about him. I see him whether I’m asleep or I’m awake. He is everywhere and nowhere, but none of that matters because he is not here! And so I must see to my own death. I am not trying to kill myself! I am trying to get killed!”

“There is no difference.”

“Is there not? Combeferre, I cannot bear to live. I cannot stand life. Please, leave me alone in the gutter to die. Let my wounds become infected, let me bleed out! Let them come back to finish me off! Or I shall find another gang. Maybe they will have guns. Guns, and you will be too late to save me!”

“Silence, Grantaire!”

“I am trying to!”

Combeferre looked absolutely exasperated. “Grantaire, do you think Enjolras would ever forgive either of us if I left you here and now? Do you think I could forgive myself?”

“I would forgive you. It would be the first kindness you showed me. A greater kindness would be if you were to put a bullet in me yourself.”

“I will not do it.”

“You are cruel!”

“Then so be it,” snapped Combeferre as he jerked Grantaire to his feet again and dragged him along despite the drunk man’s stumbles and protestations. “We need to get you cleaned up and then returned to Bossuet and Joly’s before they discover you are gone. You look absolutely horrible.”

“No worse than usual,” muttered Grantaire.

And Combeferre grimly smiled. “So it is then.”

\---

They sat in silence in Combeferre’s apartment. Grantaire barely winced whenever Combeferre applied wet cloths and bandages upon his open wounds, but he did not push Combeferre away when he went to inspect the rest of his body. For that much, Enjolras was relieved.

“You have a broken rib, but your limbs are fine,” said Combeferre finally. “The bruises and swelling make you look worse than you really are. Here, drink this.”

Grantaire took the bowl from Combeferre but did not put it to his mouth. “Why do you bother? You hate me.”

“I do not.”

“You didn’t like that I was with Enjolras. You hated that he chose me. You thought I was unworthy. You probably still do. No, I know you do. I don’t hold it against you. I could never believe he was with me. I know I was never worth his attention or his affections—”

Combeferre scowled. “Enough. Enjolras was capable of making his own decisions. My opinion on the matter of the two of you is unimportant. Now drink the medicine.”

“You wish I died instead of him. All of you do. So why do you keep me alive now? Do you hate me so much you enjoy my suffering without him?”

“Drink the medicine.”

Grantaire’s shoulder slumped. “So it is that you hate me and you wish to see me suffer.”

Enjolras noticed Combeferre’s fingers curl into a fist. He gently placed his ghostly hand on top of them, silently begging him to keep his temper. Combeferre loosened his fists and knelt before Grantaire, making sure that their eyes met.

“Hear me now, and hear me well. Nobody wishes for your death, not even in exchange for Enjolras’ life. You are the only one who wants that. But let me tell you that not even Enjolras would want your death, not even now. It is not because he would not want to be with you. It is because he wanted you to live and be happy. I know you believe you cannot live or cannot be happy without him, and I know you see no end to your misery until death takes you, but believe me, your death will solve nothing.”

Grantaire snapped, “I have heard all of this before.”

“But you have not heard this: I do not wish that you had died instead of Enjolras. I wish I had. This would upset him, I know this, but I do not care. I should have been the one taken by that explosion. Not him. And I know that he would not want this for me. I know that given the choice between my life and his he would have always chosen mine to spare. This does not matter to me.

“We are not the same, you and I, but I know what it means to live with him and to live without him. It is impossible to carry on. I want to be dead. The reason I am not is simple: I have always respected Enjolras’ requests and judgment. If this is what he wants for me, for us, to live and be happy, then I will strive for it. If you loved him, you would do the same.”

“Do not accuse me of not loving him!” snarled Grantaire. “It is because I love him I cannot live without him! My life was dark before him, and then he became my light. Even if he never loved me back, he was still there, giving me reason to live another day! And now he is gone, and my world has never been darker.”

“All of our worlds are darker, but we carry on.”

“You are all stronger than I am.”

Combeferre sighed and stood, shaking his head as he went back to the table full of his medical supplies. “You give yourself too little credit. Drink.”

Enjolras smiled as Grantaire gaped at Combeferre’s back. He had told Grantaire this once after Louis-Philippe abdicated and everyone began to find their place in the new republic. Grantaire felt he would fit in nowhere, but Enjolras assured him otherwise. That memory was not lost to Grantaire, and without a word he hesitantly took a sip from the bowl.

“That is disgusting!”

“Drink it.”

Grantaire made a face but did as he was told. When he finished, he set the bowl aside. He scanned the room, awake for the first time since Enjolras’ death, when his eyes fell upon something on Combeferre’s bookshelf. Grantaire tried to stand but cried out as he did so. Combeferre was immediately at his side to ease back down.

“That,” Grantaire gasped, pointing to the leather bound folder on the bookshelf. “That is Enjolras’.”

Combeferre glanced to where Grantaire indicated. “Yes.”

“Why do you have it? It has nothing for the government in there. It is music.”

“I know.”

“Why do you have it?”

Combeferre remained stoic, but Enjolras heard the trace of regret in his voice as he said, “Because I never had the chance to hear him play.”

“Oh.” A beat. “I did.”

Grantaire was not smug when he said this. Instead he was solemn but not sheepish. Combeferre stared at him without a trace of surprise or jealousy, asking Grantaire to continue.

And so Grantaire did. “It was when we went to his family’s place for the Easter holiday. I never knew he used to play the piano before then. He feared that he was out of practice since he had not played in a few years, since coming to Paris, but he was…” Grantaire smiled. “… beautiful. I do not know how else to explain it. I am not as good with words as Prouvaire is, or you or Courfeyrac, but I just remember the sun coming in through the windows and just… him. Enjolras and the music that flowed from his soul and through the piano. Forgive me.”

Grantaire hung his head and wiped his eyes. Enjolras embraced him, smiling as he went back to that day.

It was the first time he had touched those cold keys, but he remembered everything: how his fingers were supposed to curl, where the notes were, his foot pressing down on the pedals he had an easier time of reaching. There was no one else in the house that day but himself and Grantaire, and he knew that Grantaire’s curiosity was piqued ever since his mother offhandedly mentioned Enjolras’ passion before the republic. So Enjolras decided to treat Grantaire to one of his favorite pieces, and they had returned to Paris with that leather folder filled with all of the songs Enjolras treasured most.

Combeferre frowned and hesitantly asked, “Do you want it back?”

“No. I have the memory, though neither his music nor my memory could ever bring him back, and he’s who I want back the most. Keep it. Please.”

Combeferre nodded and then glanced at the clock upon his wall. “You shall stay here for the night, then. I will send a message to Joly and Bossuet so that they know where you have gone. We’ll see you back to their home tomorrow. You must rest now.”

He helped Grantaire into the bed and blew out a couple of candles to dim the light. As he jotted the missive for Joly and Bossuet, Grantaire stared at him for a long while and murmured as he drifted to sleep, “Thank you, Combeferre.”

He was asleep before Combeferre could respond, and Enjolras quietly repeated the sentiments.

“No,” murmured Combeferre. “Thank you.”


End file.
